Sunday, April 29, 2012

Pieces of You

There is a piece of you in everything that I write, which is a damn shame because really and truly, 'you' don't exist. Well, that isn't strictly true, you do exist but only in my mind. You aren't yet complete, you are not quite the sum of your parts, yet. Nevertheless, here you are in every blog post that I befoul the Internet with. Most of the time you are a big part of what I write, sometimes merely a blip like an airplane on a radar screen in some darkened room that a harassed controller has to identify as friend or foe.

To me at least you are both, friend and foe. Friend in the fact that you are the inspiration for some of my finest lines, even though my fine lines are still dross, they are the best I can do. And, for the most part, they are directly related to, or inspired by you. Foe in the fact that you are also the reason that I write what has been called some really depressing shit. For without you, and the things we have done and shared the dispirited part of me would not be writing things that make other people (not you of course) cry. Strangely enough you laugh at at type of sentiment, too loudly for it not to be forced I might add, and you still somehow lack a sense of humor. It is a part of the paradox that makes you, well you. The reason that you do 'exist' (in the broadest sense of the term), is because if you didn't I would have had to invent you. However, make no mistake, I have invented you, or at least pieces of you.

Those pieces that I have painstakingly invented are the important bits, not the colour of your eyes, or your hair, or the size of your breasts. Those are mere details, details that do not overly concern me. Brown hair, red hair, blue hair, it matters not. Green eyes, brown eyes, red eyes, they make not one whit of difference. Flat chested, average sized breasts, or tits that hang down to your knees are not something to concern me overly much. Those are the physical traits that aren't important to the story of you. The story that may or may not have a happy ending. The story of why there are only pieces of you.

Of course that is the problem. The fundamental stumbling block to you. The fact that as an entire being, you don't exist. You can't really fully exist, because if you did then I think I would cease to exist. My existence would fold into yours like a well folded blanket placed on a hospital bed by a well meaning nurse. And, I have grown rather used to (if not entirely comfortable with) my existence. You see, it is the only existence I have known, and if my non-belief system is correct it will be the only existence I have, so you can see why I would be loathe to part with it just so you could fully become you. Not that I expect you to care, or at least the parts of you that do exist. I can also see your point of view. If the situation were reversed then I wouldn't hesitate to steamroll over your existence like a Panzer division in order to bring myself into being.

However, I got here first, and as they (those unnamed bastards) taught me in property law, 'first in time, first in right.' Not that I have accomplished a massive amount of anything with my existence to date, and I doubt I'll be curing cancer, writing the great American novel, or scoring the game winning goal that secures Sweden the World Cup anytime soon, but I kind of feel like I should be given the chance. After all, I am pretty sure you are a monster. A 'monster of the id' if you will, a being that if you were to come into being would have little else in mind but ending my existence. For that I need no help.

And so, you will have to remain pieces only, small parts of you, scattered throughout the world, in different places, time zones, states, and countries. Little bits of your existence that are not allowed to coalesce into one solid form. You have to remain a potential being, a being that is a mere shadow, not allowed to take to the main stage, an actor who's part has not yet be fully written playing a role that doesn't exist yet. A role that I can not allow you to audition for, a role that can not be filled, a role that has to remain only partially written in the recesses of my own mind. A mind that is, in many ways, already at war with itself over your partial existence. However, fear not, it is a mind that is loathe to and will never completely give you up, a mind that will continue to place little pieces of you in everything I write. I suspect you wouldn't have it any other way.